


Winning, Losing

by sepia_cigarettes



Series: Lessons [1]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepia_cigarettes/pseuds/sepia_cigarettes
Summary: It's always about winning, until Belle comes along and proves that's not the case at all.Prequel to The Novelty of It; parallels the 2017 film plot.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tixing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tixing/gifts).



> I'm back because I'm a sucker for BATB, surprisingly. My head canon is that the castle is in a time capsule, with two months for his wounds to heal properly.

It's only after he yells at her, after he's investigated every angle of the rose to ensure it remains the same, that he feels a strange twinge in his chest. What is that? Guilt? Where did that come from?

Mrs Pott's words earlier had more of an effect on him than he wants to admit. He had sneered at the time at her, but it still hurts now, hours later.

"Master!" It is Lumière. "The girl. She has run away!"

He frowns at the candelabra. "What? Why?"

"I don't know, Master, but she was unstoppable. You must get her. We need her to break the curse!"

"Why are you so set on her being the one to break it?"

"Because I have this feeling. But also, the woods are dangerous, _non_? She will never make it back to her village alive."

"And I suppose that's my fault?"

"Master, I have known you a long time. You can be cold, _oui_ , but you are not a murderer."

Beast growls. "That’s not a fair comparison at all."

He doesn't say anything more, but the twinge in his chest has turned into a fully-fledged hammering. He tells himself that it's because he gave her a life sentence and he's claiming his prisoner, not because he's the slightest bit concerned for her wellbeing. 

"Fine."

 

 

He gets to her just in time, intercepting the alpha as it lunges for her. They're much smaller than him but twice as stubborn and it seems each time he throws one off, another comes for him, snapping at his ankles, teeth sinking into flesh. His leg is bleeding profusely, and then there's a searing pain in his back when one bites into him from behind.

 _Coward_.

He falls to his knees and they grapple together before he manages to fling that one into a nearby embankment as well and sends them running with a territorial roar.

 

The world blurs.

 

A soft voice: “You have to help me. You have to stand."

But he can't focus; the pain in his leg and back is excruciating. He just wants to lie down here for a bit, gather his breath and what's left of his wits, and try and make it back to the castle before the wolves decide to return.

She is more stubborn than the wolves. She doesn't let him close his eyes again, pats his face when he tries to drift off, before helping him slump onto her horse. He has a vague thought that perhaps he should be fighting back but he’s too tired right now. Later.

 

 

Belle is an awful person. It’s her fault he’s bedbound and roaring in pain.

“If you held still, it wouldn’t hurt so much,” she says, brows knitted together.

He stares at her reproachfully, “If you hadn’t run away, none of this would have happened.”

“Well if you hadn’t frightened me, I wouldn’t have run away.”

As if it’s his fault. The nerve of her! He’s a prince, not someone she can yell at when she pleases.

“Well you shouldn’t have been in the West Wing!

“Well you should learn to control your temper!”

He doesn’t have a comeback to that, unfortunately. Curses. He turns his back on her, angry but nowhere near physically capable to force her out of his room. Besides, she had stopped the bleeding for him.

“Try to get some rest,” she says.

Mrs Potts starts talking, and he closes his eyes, shuts the noise out. He just wants to be alone.

 

 

His back is on fire the entire night, and he barely sleeps. When Belle visits him in the morning, he’s so sleep-deprived he doesn’t even manage a snide remark. She presses a hand to his forehead, brow wrinkling.

“You’re feverish.”

There’s a blessedly cool towel on his forehead then, and gentle fingers skirting around his shoulder.

He wonders why she’s taking care of him with so little fuss when he lost his temper at her yesterday.

 

 

His fever breaks the next day. She cleans his wounds again and snaps back when he complains about the poultice she’s put on his back.

“You need to trust me.”

Then she feeds him corn soup and ignores his baleful eyes.

 

 

The day afterwards, when his body doesn’t feel like it’s being rammed with hot pokers, he thanks her. It’s a gruff one, and quiet enough to preserve his ego, because he doesn't thank _anyone_ , but she hears it nonetheless.

“It’s alright.”

 

 

On the fifth day, he wakes to a cool hand on his forehead. It contrasts the heat of the morning sun streaming into his room, and he smiles in spite of himself.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Good.”

 

 

Belle recites poetry for him one day, and he groans when he learns of her favourite play. How predictable. He doesn't think he's ever worn anything other than his tattered cape in his years as a beast, but he has to look somewhat civilised. He doubts she would trust the judgement of someone who dresses like a beggar.

So he dons a blue coat and leads Belle to the library. He’s never been one to care for other people’s reactions, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t win this argument, so he pays attention, watches the way her eyes widen and her face gets an odd look of surprise on it.

That’s definitely a win. He smirks in triumph.

If she likes them that much, they’re hers, as far as he’s concerned.

The wondrous look on her face increases exponentially, and he almost feels embarrassed to see such unchecked emotion, to be the cause of it. She doesn’t appear to know where to begin. The sight of her in awe makes him smile a little.

“Have you really read every one of these books?”

He looks around, scoffs at the notion. That would be difficult. "Well, not all of them. Some of them are in Greek."

She’s smiling fully now. "Was that a joke? Are you making jokes now?"

He feels like he has been caught out. "Maybe."

Then he shakes his head and leaves, cringing inwardly.

 

 

They're still in the library at sundown. He's gone and found a favourite of his and is busy poring over it, stealing surreptitious glances over to where Belle has settled into the window seat with a tome. She looks peaceful, and he feels generous.

"Would you like to join me for dinner?"

Belle looks at him, unsure. "Join you?"

He clicks his tongue, but manages not to roll his eyes. He hates repeating himself. “Yes, for dinner.”

She pauses, before nodding imperceptibly. "Alright."

They go to the dining hall together, no conversation shared. There is already food at their determined places: Belle at the foot and him at the head. He wonders who to blame out of Lumière and Cogsworth, and decides on the former. 

It's always Lumière.

Belle still isn't talking, so he stalks around and takes his own chair, doesn't look up when he hears the soft scrape as Belle sits in hers. He can feel the nervous energy rolling off her in waves, as well as another emotion he hasn't deciphered yet.

They're having tomato soup. It's been a while since he's eaten with anyone else. Then he throws caution to the wind and eats as usual, slurping his meal up. When he looks up, Belle’s countenance is a cross between surprised and amused, and it makes him feel slightly self-conscious.

That’s a first.

He turns back to his book.

 

 

Unsurprisingly, Belle returns to the library the next day. And the next. And the next. His shoulder doesn’t hurt as much and he’s finally getting rid of his limp, and he keeps finding excuses to meet her in the library.

Today he finds her absorbed in a book, dead to the happenings of the world around her. He watches from a distance, feeling like he’s intruding on something secret. She has seemingly decided to make the window seat her designated reading spot; he hasn’t seen her anywhere else.

Eventually he thinks it’s weirder to be caught staring than interrupting, so he steps forward.

“How goes your exploration?” he asks, and she jumps.

“Sorry.” Then she looks sheepish. “It’s going wonderfully.”

He wrinkles his brow, wondering why he finds himself so interested in her approval. Not willing to find out, he holds up a book. “I know you’re a Shakespearean at heart, but I thought perhaps you might like to broaden your horizons.”

“I’m from a small village, you know. We didn’t have the luxury of a library.”

“I know,” he says, and why is he smiling? “I was teasing, of course. Regardless, I think you’d like Molière.”

She arches her brow, accepting the offering. “We shall see, won’t we?”

“I like to think I’m a good judge.”

“Do you now?” And now she’s teasing him. How the tables turn. “I beg to differ.”

He frowns. “It was just a suggestion. You don’t have to.”

“I do love to be right, though,” she says, eyes twinkling.

“We shall see,” he says, echoing her words.

 

 

He wins. It means she talks animatedly to him over dinner about it, and he’s never been big on conversation, but her enthusiasm is contagious. He ribs her about losing, and she rolls her eyes and turns back to her food. It’s a good feeling.

 

 

The next day she corners him in his study, a book clutched to her chest. “Let’s go for a walk. It’s such a beautiful day outside.”

“It’s cold outside.”

“And you are covered in fur. Up. It will do your injuries good.”

He acquiesces with a grumble, unsure how walking around will help, and follows her out the door. Chapeau dons their coats and they step into the day.

The air is crisp, and the snow crunches beneath their feet as they walk. Like this, his castle looks far less imposing. The sunlight bounces off the fresh snow, turns the frozen lake glittery. It’s beautiful.

It’s a shame, really, that he’s wasted years inside sulking.

Belle reads poetry to him as they walk, turning to him every now and then to laugh. He’s not always sure if it’s from enjoyment or embarrassment, but it’s a pleasing sound to hear.

 

 

They spend more time outside. Belle introduces him properly to Phillipe, her family’s horse. He’s apprehensive, but she’s patient, taking his paw in hers and pressing it to the horse’s broad body.

He can feel its heartbeat, strong and steady, and the horse shakes its head at him, whinnies softly.

Then they get in a snowball fight. Surprisingly, she wins. He was sure her had her after the first snowball he sent her, because she had gone to the ground like a tree in a storm, but after laughing about it he’d become concerned and gone to check on her and she had pelted him until he surrendered.

She’s sly, that one, when she wants to come out on top.

 

 

Dinner is odd. She looks at the chair next to hers, and then turns to him, daring.

So he moves to sit next to her, unsure of how else to respond, or eat. It’s much different slurping your food from the other side of the table as opposed to right next to another. He doesn’t want to get his food on her.

Except she picks up her bowl and sips from the rim, and somehow that still looks dainty and refined. So he copies, shy, and they chuckle about it.

 

 

They go for a picnic because, well, why not. It’s sunny outside, and the snow has settled enough, and Mrs Potts suggested it, so he goes with it. Belle of course, is delighted with the idea. It makes him smile.

"Choose a book for me," she says, "and I'll get one for you."

He arches his brow. “It better be an intelligent one.”

“I will make sure of it.”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

Is this banter? His old self would be appalled.

“One day,” she says, hand on her hip, and that visual wasn’t something he ever anticipated being remotely attractive. “You’re going to read a romance and it’s going to sweep you off your feet.”

“It shan’t,” he replies airily. “I prefer stimulating ones.” And _damn_ , that’s a terrible choice of words.

Her brows are arched higher than his. “We’ll see about that, good sir.”

He watches her leave for the East Wing, and takes a deep breath to recollect his thoughts. Still foolish.

 

 

Cuisinier makes a robust luncheon for them, and they load up Phillipe before trekking to the lake. Plumette has provided them with thick winter blankets and duvets and they layer them on the ground to stop the cold before Belle settles and unpacks.

“And what book have you chosen for me?” _My dear_. The endearment sits on his tongue, and he mentally curses himself for allowing the idiotic thoughts to continue.

Ignorant, she hands him a tome. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

She’s given him a romance. When he looks at her, unimpressed, she pushes it towards him.

“You’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll prove you wrong.”

“I doubt that.”

He passes her his own choice, suddenly anxious. He hopes she likes it. It’s a classic, one that he had to dig around in the library for.

“You seem to like poetry,” she notes. “Shall I read it to you?”

“If you wish.”

So she does. He tries not to sit too close to her because he's hideous and she looks like a pretty flower peeking its head at the sun for the first time.

Belle is ignorant, pausing only to eat at a choquette every so often, and eventually, lulled by the gentle lilt of her reading, he stops thinking of what to do with his hands or when to eat, and listens to her instead. It feels like a cool balm on a hot summer's day.

 

 

There's a storm when Belle is almost done reading aloud, and then she gets so worried about ruining the books that she tucks them away in her skirts and forgoes seeking shelter from the rain. He shields them both as well as he can, but the run back to the castle isn’t as quick as usual given her bipedalism and Phillipe’s hatred of thunder.

When they make it back to the castle, they're soaking wet like they've just bathed. Belle looks like a bedraggled mouse, and he probably isn't that great either; she proves as much by laughing at him, and he laughs at her, shakes the water from his fur and wets her even more, and they chuckle for a while.

Chapeau gives them with blankets and they sit next to the hearth, sipping cocoa Mrs Pott's brings them. 

"Some of the pages are wet," Belle says regretfully, laying the books out in front of the fire to dry. "I'm sorry."

He stares at her, confused yet charmed. "They are your books. Do with them what you like."

"Are you serious?"

His heart swells. "Yes."

Happiness, he decides, is in the little things, like the way Belle is looking at him.

 

 

They have breakfast together the next day, a first. It’s not even anyone’s idea; it’s his own. He waits for her at the junction of their wings, greets her with a comment of how bad the book she gave him was (truly terrible, it kept him up all night), and they exchange barbs as they walk to the dining hall together.

Belle tells him about her dreams and their abstract thoughts over eggs, and he makes her giggle recounting stories of his most hated Latin tutor.

 

 

She catches him reading and teases him for it, to his chagrin.

“I never thanked you for saving my life,” she says, when her eyes have stopped twinkling.

He hadn’t expected this as a conversation. “Well, I never thanked you for not leaving me to be eaten by wolves.”

And he means it. He’d missed this feeling, the sense of contentment.

Belle comments on the raucous activity of his household staff, and he agrees. Everyone here has been happier since she arrived. He tells her of his presence being a dampener on the mood, and she nods in understanding.

“The villagers think I’m a ‘funny’ girl, but I don’t think they mean it as a compliment.”

He frowns. The more he hears about her life outside the castle, the more miserable it becomes. “Your village sounds terrible.”

She smiles at that and it warms him. “Almost as lonely as your castle.”

“What do you say we run away?”

 

 

He takes her to the library and finds the Enchantress’ book. He used it once, many years ago, when he was more naïve and seeking out a cure for his appearance. It hadn’t ended well, and he’d refused to look at the book since.

Now though, he opens it for Belle. He means it as a gift; he wants her to see the world.

He wonders where she’ll take them.

 

 

When he blinks again, they’re in an attic. It’s dark and dusty, and was clearly abandoned years before.

“Where did you take us?"

“Paris.”

 _Paris_. He has good memories of this place. “Oh, I love Paris. What would you like to see first? The Notre-Dame, the Champs-Élysées? No, too touristy?”

When Belle doesn’t say anything, he turns to appraise her fully.

“It’s so much smaller than I imagined.”

He’s an idiot.

He really is. Belle is staring at the attic with a look of longing, and he realises why she chose here, and not a more obvious choice.

This had been her home.

He watches her walk; takes in the way she runs her hand over the furniture like she’s trying to learn the memories they hold. When she finds a baby rattle fashioned as a rose, she sits down on the bed.

He never asked. “What happened to your mother?”

“It was the one story Papa could never bring himself to tell me. I knew better than to ask.”

Oh no. He wanders around the attic, trying to piece it all together, before he sees a doctor’s mask on the rocking chair.

But that could only mean—

“Plague,” he says, picking it up, and Belle’s countenance crumbles, and that feels like a stake to the heart, because he knows what it’s like, finding out news like _that_ , he knows how she feels and it _hurts_.

If he were braver, he might offer some sort of comfort. He wants to hold her until she stops crying.

Belle looks at him, eyes wet with tears.

“Let’s go home,” she whispers, and it’s so bittersweet his heart feels like it’s going to burst.

 

 

So they go back to the castle, back _home_.

She doesn’t say anything when they return, just curls into an armchair by the fire and stares into the flames. He takes a blanket, drapes it over her, and nods at the small ‘thanks’ she gives him.

“I’m here if you’d like to talk. Anything, really.” And he means it.

“Nothing right now,” she says, voice small.

He takes a deep breath, then sits in the adjacent armchair. “I’ll read to you then, if that’s alright.”

“Alright.”

Eventually she falls asleep. He contemplates taking her to her room, but decides it’s wildly inappropriate since she isn’t sick and would make quite a salacious tale if the household ever found out. Instead, he reaches over, pulls the blanket up so she’s covered to her chin and leans back in his own chair, prepared to wait out the night with her.

 

 

She's quiet at breakfast, which makes his desire to see her normal again increase tenfold.

"Did you sleep well?" He asks, feeling like breaking the silence is a sin.

He didn't have the chance to ask earlier though; when he’d awoken she was not there, and after he’d bathed, she had not met him to walk down together either. He had been too cowardly to check by her wing, and had waited in the dining hall instead, cursing himself.

"Tell me about your mother."

He shifts, uncomfortable. It's been a long time since he's thought of any positivity surrounding his childhood, but his mother was certainly one aspect. 

"She was very patient. Gentle."

Belle's eyes are wet again. "She sounds lovely."

"She was." He laughs, but it's not a happy one. "She was one of the kindest people I knew." Suddenly it's his eyes that are wet now. Damn. "But she was sick, and had been for a long time. My father didn't care."

"That's awful. I'm sorry."

It is awful, now that he thinks of it. "I was a fool. I wanted his approval so much. I did everything he asked, even if I didn't like it."

He bites the inside of his cheek, awash with remorse.

“Does it get better?”

He doesn’t know. He knew his mother, whilst Belle only heard about hers in stories from her father. He tells her as much.

“Do you think they would have liked each other?”

He doesn’t know the answer to that either. If she was anything like Belle, and there hadn’t been the class difference, he likes to think so.

“Perhaps. Mothers understand each other.”

Mrs Potts wheels herself in with more tea, and the conversation dies. Well, that’s a rather heavy start to the morning. So much for making Belle happier. It feels like it just prolonged her grief. He clears his throat and reaches for the butter, grateful when Belle doesn't ask further.

 

 

The next few days pass by relatively normally; well, at least as normal as their life together is. He’s not sure what to call it. Co-existence? He’d dare to say they’re friends, but it has a sort of negative connotation to it, like there’s no going beyond that sort of relationship, and despite his past grievances with co-dependency, he doesn’t like that idea.

Cogsworth and Lumière keep pressuring him to make a move, but he always silences them. He doesn’t want to push her in any direction, not that he thinks she’d let him. He smiles at that. Her argumentative side had reared its head at him often enough to let him know that she didn’t care for his status or entitlement, so long as he behaved in a socially appropriate manner.

He likes that about her, the calming effect she has on him. He knows why he hasn’t been so angry lately, and it irks him. He wakes up and his first damned thought is what Belle is doing.

The prospect of her ever loving him is so unrealistic though, regardless of how much the others urge him to pursue her. How could anyone love a beast? Belle is very attractive, he would be a fool not to notice, but beautiful people like her deserve much more than the monstrosity he’s been cursed into.

“Belle.” He says, standing when she walks into the dining hall. “Good morning.”

“You didn’t wait for me,” she accuses, but it’s playful.

“You were taking so long.”

“I lost track of the time reading.”

“Of course you were.”

They don’t mention _the book_ ; instead, they talk about his mother, and she muses on what hers was like. He tells her what he thought of the other morning, about their mothers getting along if hers was any similar to herself, and she squeezes his paw.

“That was kind of you.”

“Was it?”

“Don’t be coy.”

 

 

After breakfast he goes to spend time with Phillipe. He’s always liked horses; when he was younger, there was a mare who would let him play with her filly, and the stable hands were always kind to him.

Poor creature. It had been through a lot when he first knew it, and he scared it half to death when he got mad at Belle’s father.

He doesn’t even know the man’s name, and he’s such a big part of Belle. He tries thinking of what it might have been like if his father and he got along, and decides it’s impossible. His father was self-centred, and even though he spent countless nights vowing he would never be like that, it had happened, hadn’t it?

After all, that’s why they were here.

In an absurd way, he’s grateful for the curse. Otherwise, he’d never have met Belle.

Phillipe flicks his ears and bumps his shoulder. It’s all healed now. Belle had taken a look the other day, and it hadn’t been the first time she’d seen him without clothing and it had been purely clinical when she’d run her fingers across the scar tissue, and yet his stomach had been doing somersaults and he’d wanted more.

So much more.

He shakes his head, turns his thoughts back to Belle’s father, and makes a mental note to ask Belle on the topic when he sees her next; perhaps it will cheer her.

 

 

He can’t find Belle, until Lumière points him in the direction of the ballroom. An odd place to be, that’s for sure.

When he walks in, Belle is teetering on the edge of the ladder, helping polish one of the chandeliers.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Then he has to rush forward to steady her when she turns and loses her balance.

“Apologies.” He says, heart hammering as he holds the ladder in place. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just a little caught off-guard, that’s all.” She straightens up, sweeps her arms around the room. “What do you think?”

“Have you been cleaning?”

She looks at him impatiently. “Not at all; my clothes just get dirty for no reason. I’ve yet to find out why.”

“Oh alright.” He lets the ladder go and turns to appraise her work.

She’s done well. He hasn’t been here since he was cursed all those years ago, but here, done away with its cobwebs and decay and sparkling in the afternoon light with Belle at its centre, he’s mesmerised.

He speaks without thinking: “You’re making everything look so beautiful, we should have a dance tonight.”

Oh God, he said that aloud. _Putain_.

He almost gets to take it back, say he was joking and that it’s such a _silly_ notion, until she gives him the most brilliant smile.

“That’s a wonderful idea.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Let’s dance at eight.”

“Oh. Well, that’s…excellent.”

Then he flees.

 

 

He almost doesn’t go. After complaining to Lumière about it, and subsequently being threatened by all of the household about a terrible remaining existence if he didn’t try, and remembering that Belle would probably demand he act like a gentleman instead of deserting her, he manages to be dressed and ready, waiting on the landing.

Lumière doesn’t know anything. He feels like a fool. His collar is too tight; it would function better as a noose. It’s almost as if he’s playing dress up in another’s closet.

The doors to the East Wing close, and he strains his ears to listen. There’s the gentle swish of fabric, the sound of slow footsteps. Belle appears.

And, oh. _Oh._

She's wearing a yellow dress, her hair is done up, and she's smiling at him. He stares at her, dumbfounded.

She looks beautiful.

They walk down together, and he gets flustered when she has to prompt him to support her. He hasn’t done this in years.

Belle curtseys for him, a cloud of yellow silk organza at his knees, and his stomach twists.

God. He can't even remember how to dance.

Maestro Cadenza is playing in the background, aided by Mrs Potts’ singing. Cogsworth was wrong; he doesn’t feel ‘slightly nauseous’. He wants to vomit.

Belle holds out her hands, the epitome of confidence, and he realises her offer to lead.

A wave of relief washes over him. Well thank God for that.

They swirl around the dance floor, vague memories of dancing slowly returning until he doesn’t feel like he’s got two left feet. Belle takes him through it, smiling at him and giving him encouraging nudges each time he hesitates, and gradually he eases into it, stops thinking about tripping or stepping on her hem and focuses on how pretty she looks.

She really is breath-taking.

One hand on her waist, another holding her hand, he’s never felt so happy. He can’t stop staring.

Belle spins back into his grasp, lets him cradle her neck and draw her close.

He could kiss her like this.

He could press forward and watch her eyes close and kiss her and it would be so easy.

Except he doesn’t.

He dips her instead, lifts her up and twirls her around on his hip, uncomfortable with the way his chest feels full.

 

 

When it’s over, Belle slips her arm into his, looks up at him meaningfully, and he tries not to read too far into it, because he’s a coward and she’s an oasis in a desert. Then they walk outside to the balcony and gaze into the dark ether, silent. He chuckles, tells her how he’d forgotten what dancing felt like. He’s out of breath, and not just from the waltz.

He can feel Lumière and the rest of the household boring holes into his back with their eyes. The urge to vomit returns with renewed vigour.

“I suppose,” he begins, tasting bile. “It’s foolish, for a creature like me to ever hope that one day he might earn your affection.”

Belle blinks, contemplative. “I don’t know.”

Well he wasn’t expecting _that_.

“Really? You think you could be happy here?”

“Can anyone be happy if they’re not truly free?”

That sets him back, makes him feel guiltier than usual about her imprisonment. Of course. How naïve of him; it’s the equivalent of expecting a chambermaid to love him, when she most likely would comply out of duty than true affection.

“My father taught me to dance. I used to step on his toes a lot.”

Hearing her talk about her father so fondly makes the guilt increase tenfold, when he’s the reason she isn’t home, her real home.

“You must miss him.”

She looks so sad. “Very much.”

An idea comes to him. “Would you like to see him?”

 

 

In hindsight, if he hadn’t shown her that mirror, if he hadn’t let her go, they most likely would have gone their separate ways that night and he would have been blissfully happy because she hadn’t rejected the thought of being with him. It wouldn’t have been honest though, and it wouldn’t have been fair. Keeping Belle for himself when she was like a bird, desperate to see the world, would have been cruel and selfish, and she’d let him know countless times before what she thought of his previous behaviour.

So he’d let her go, watched as she turned and ran and found himself staring at the stars, heart breaking, gasping for his next breath.

It hurts.

He doesn’t know why she didn’t escape again whilst he was healing.

That's a lie.

He knows she felt obliged after he saved her from the wolves; she's too good of a person to have left him with festering wounds.

Now though, with a hoard of villagers attacking his castle, he can see the writing on the wall.

 

 

There’s movement behind him, the presence of someone who isn’t a staff member.

They're tall and muscular, dark-haired and confident. He despises them already.

“Hello, Beast,” the stranger says. “I’m Gaston. Belle sent me.”

Well that feels like a kick in the guts.

“Are you in love with her?” Gaston says.

He feels like nodding, because he is, and only an idiot would think otherwise. It must be clear as daylight.

Then he gets shot in the back. Putain.

 

 

The more he struggles with this fellow, the more he hates him. Why on earth would someone as sensible as Belle associate herself with a person like Gaston?

His shoulder is bleeding, _again_. It’s not like it hadn’t gotten its fair share of trauma already. Blood stains his tunic, his muscles scream each time he jumps, and that bastard is still chasing after him. How bloody persistent is he?

He leaps to another spire, scrabbles for a handhold, curses the tiles as they fall. He almost contemplates falling himself, giving up because what’s the damned point, until—

 

“No!”

 

He knows that voice.

 

“Belle?”

 

And there she is, brow furrowed with worry. Gone is the ball gown, and yet he’s never seen anyone so beautiful.

 

“Belle!” he yells. “You came back!”

“I tried to stop them!” she calls, and he throws caution to the wind, decides that right now the only important thing is embracing her, holding her, kissing her, anxiety about her lack of reciprocation be damned.

“Stay there! I’m coming.”

 

 

You know, Gaston is a connard. Truly. He never gives up. He’d hated the way the man had called him Beast, because that’s not him. He’s a prince, goddamn it, and he’d acted like one and banished Gaston rather than kill him mercilessly.

Gaston had been the beast, in the end, and yet he was still losing.

 

 

There’s pain, and then there is so much more pain, and there’s Belle. Belle is here, soft hands cradling him, smiling in spite of the situation. Three shots to the back, seriously? The bastard clearly hadn’t heard of overkill.

“You came back,” he says in disbelief to Belle, holding onto her hand, because he feels if he lets go she’ll disappear and he needs her now more than ever.

She nods, eyes glistening, and as if to disprove his thoughts, she says, “I’m never leaving you again.”

He smiles at that, fondly, because even now she’s so optimistic. “I’m afraid it’s my turn to leave.”

“We’re together now,” she says, ignorant. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

But it’s not, because he’s dying, he knows that, and he never got the chance to tell her how much she means to him.

“At least I got to see you one last time,” he says, and it’s the closest to an ‘I love you’ that he can manage. 


End file.
